Words Born, Like I Was, in 1972. A Through M as I Hit 50.

Posted on by The Centifictionist

Actioner. The car-chase movie they screwed through.
Alternative medicine.
Animatronic. “Ever want to give me up?” Mom: “No, my sweet little doll!”
Aspartame.
Automated teller. Took her job.
Bag lady. Bag kid.
Delegitimate. He being a dead-beat Smith,
doomsdayer. Mom said I was a Phoenix.
Then, bam—
dump truck. We survived.
Feel-good. Family-sized bottles of pain pills.
Gut-wrenching.
Hardscape. Tim and I were.
Lumpectomy.
Mani-pedi. Mom died, her salon gift certificate unused and her nails unpainted.
Mini stroke. Big enough at 44.
Munchkin. Kari, tall like Tim, says I’m shrinking and will make a cute little Gran. N through Z.

Karen Walker’s words are in Janus Literary, Reflex Fiction, FlashBack Fiction, Ellipsis Zine, JAKE, Brink, Funny Pearls, Flash Boulevard, Bloom, and elsewhere. Twitter: @MeKawalker883.